


Just a Figment

by Foxandraven



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe-Imaginary Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Except everyone can see them, F/M, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends universe, Imaginary friends are real, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, Wymack has a halfway/foster home, no exy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:00:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxandraven/pseuds/Foxandraven
Summary: If there was one thing that haunted Chris’s dreams more than his father, it was Figments. They were everywhere on the streets, trailing faithfully after their creators. If there weren’t any physical Figments around to remind him, someone had it covered; the news with a change in the Figment Laws or how to properly care for them, people talking about charities, donations, foster and halfway homes.Chris couldn't escape.~Or the universe in which Imaginary Friends (Figments) actually exist and Wymack ends up running a halfway home for everything deadly and dangerous that needs a second chance.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smokesprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokesprite/gifts).



> Hello! This is my first attempt at posting a fic, so any and all feedback is appreciated. I'm gifting this to smokesprite as a birthday present, I'm sorry it's three days late but schoooooool and its here now! So, Happy Birthday! Also, I call Imaginary Friends, Figments in this AU...it seemed more mature to me *shrug* Annnyywayysss any and all feedback would be appreciated and thanks for reading!

If there was one thing that haunted Chris’s dreams more than his father, it was Figments. They were everywhere on the streets, trailing faithfully after their creators. If there weren’t any physical Figments around to remind him, someone had it covered; the news with a change in the Figment Laws or how to properly care for them, people talking about charities, donations, foster and halfway homes.

Chris couldn’t escape. Watch, Mary would say, we need to be prepared to plan accordingly. Take note of suspicious local activities and crimes. Watch the weather for the week, what roads will be under construction. Prepare, study, be aware. A great deal of the crimes lately had been Figment oriented, so Chris couldn’t always block out the inevitable Figment stories that came up in the daily news.

Some days, he succeeded.

And some days he was Nathaniel, back in the basement under knives, talons, and claws.

~~~

The first-time Nathaniel’s Figment presented itself, his mother had grabbed him and tried to run. Nathaniel’s Figment flared into existence on a Wednesday evening when he was 5 years old—it was early Thursday, under the vague darkness of morning, in which they fled. They only lasted about an hour before Lola caught them. That was the day Nathaniel got the largest looping scar carved into his chest—courtesy of one of his father’s Figments.

It was a few more years before Mary was willing to try again, and it was during that time in between that she planned and prepared; this time she would not fail—for herself and her son.

~~~

When Mary lost contact with Bronwyn, her Figment, they knew it was time to go. Alex’s breaths grew shorter and came faster—the desire to look behind him in search of the old owl was overwhelming, but his mother’s nails dug into his arms and held tight, nearly white from the pressure. There were no footsteps chasing them, only sharp tipped paws and two sets of flapping of wings. He hoped Atlas was smart enough not to tangle with either of Nathan’s Figments, but Mary had always said he was like Alex—a martyr at heart.

The street glowed slightly brighter than the pitch of alley they were currently attempting to escape; it was only when all sounds but their own footsteps disappeared that Alex knew it was game over. A pair of screeches, one high in desperation, the other lower—hungrier, echoed from the wet stone all around them.

Desperation and anxiety tightened his chest. Not good, not good, Mary chided in the back of his head—in reality she was too focused on survival to give advice or criticisms. In his mind, Alex repeated the list his mother had pressed into his memory like a mantra: plan ahead, trust no one, be aware of your surroundings, cover all your bases. He’d already fucked up, he knew—the anxiety wrapped around his torso like Romero’s Figment and cinched on his already struggling lungs. That sliver of distraction grew: the bind on his chest grew tighter and he tripped. Rhythm gone—Alex caved. He rolled his wrist, grabbing Mary’s arm for guidance, and peeked behind him.

Long, serrated ivory fangs were framed by black gums, coated, and dripping a pearlescent liquid set just behind powerfully bound forelegs reaching for him with sharp tipped claws. One of Nathan’s Figments. Kahn. A horrifying memory brought to life and within a foot of Alex’s face. Fear clogged his throat as his fingers tightened and body stiffened.

Extremely cunning and intelligent, Kahn was a nightmare given life and infallibly loyal to Nathan. Sure, he would enjoy carving them up a bit, batting them around but he would save the best for his creator and Nathan had had a few years to think of some creative ways to make their days and nights a living hell if he ever got his hands on them. It was that thought that made his blood freeze and sent him tumbling.

It was that second that would result in Alex becoming Neil and Mary becoming cracked bones and ash.

~~~

In retrospect, Neil knew he shouldn’t have stayed in Millport as long as he had. And even though she had died, Neil could still hear Mary, an unshakable conscious slithering in the back of his mind, reminding him, pushing him to run and run and never look back. But even with copious reasons to leave, Neil stayed.

After spending weeks wandering the States, he had come across Millport: a small dying town where children with less than obedient Figments were sent. No one would take a second look at a high schooler with parents who didn’t visit. It was a town built on outcasts and misfits, Neil and Atlas would blend right in—just another pair of trouble making miscreants set aside by parents that were too busy to care. Maybe that’s why Neil decided to stay so long, he thought he could blend in without having the other students or teachers asking too many risky questions.

Out of habit Neil didn't talk to anyone unless necessary and when he did deign to talk to the anyone else he made it short and to the point. The one time that Neil had spoken more than five words to anyone in Millport, he so ruthlessly dragged a basketball player’s reputation through the mud that everyone left him to his machinations. So, despite Neil’s best attempts to remain completely under the radar, everyone knew who he was; the self-imposed exile.

When Neil’s attitude alone didn’t fully succeed in driving everyone off, he bought out one of the three single bedrooms in the dorms that had been erected nearby. The dorms were built for the teenagers whose parents lived out of town; a requirement from the government so that under-aged students weren't unsupervised.

Of course, he had the money to pay for a single room, but that still meant a community laundry and bathroom facility. No one ever saw him come or go in the dorms and a few rumors had been started that he was a ghost that had died on the track field and was forever stuck haunting the school. However, the truth was that Neil rarely slept in the dorms since Figments weren’t allowed in the building at night and Neil couldn’t sleep without Atlas on his pillow.

The first few nights Neil tried to sleep in the dorm, he had even gone out and bought the cheapest set of bed sheets available. He really tried, but it took him hours to fall asleep without one of Atlas's wings in his face and weight on his pillow. Whenever he did fall asleep...it was...restless at best. Every forty-five minutes Neil would jolt awake—scanning the room frantically, reaching for a gun that wasn't there and brushing away feathers that didn’t exist.

After the first three days, Neil stopped trying to sleep in the dorm and instead each night he broke into the Crest and fell asleep with Atlas as his blanket and his duffel bag as his pillow.

~~~

It was the snick of a lock that woke Neil, and consequently Atlas, from slumber.

"Hernandez?” Atlas whistled in affirmation before ruffling his feathers. Neil shrugged at him, it wouldn't be the first-time Coach Hernandez had caught him sleeping in the Crest. Besides they'd worked out a routine by now.

The Coach walked into the Crest at exactly 4:30 A.M. every morning to check on the Figments and feed the ones that required it. Most of the time Neil was gone by the time Coach Hernandez walked in the door, but on the days Hernandez found him, he would stay and help the Coach with a few morning tasks before going for a run. Coach Hernandez had yet to say anything to the school about his sleeping habits over the past year and Neil wasn’t going to push it.

The door swung in, bringing the silhouette of Hernandez and the overwhelming smell of coffee into the room as Neil sat up, Atlas perched on his left shoulder. No matter what time of day it was, Neil had discovered that Hernandez smelled of coffee.

Sometimes it was noxiously sweet, sometimes horribly bitter, but he would smell of coffee no less.

“Neil. Atlas.” Hernandez said and tossed a paper bag in Neil’s direction. He caught the bag instinctively after a second of fumbling panic before the heady scent of bacon hit him and kick started his stomach. With a quick nod to Coach Hernandez, Neil tucked into the breakfast burrito, feeding Atlas occasional bites of bacon on his shoulder.

The first-time Hernandez had tried to feed them, Neil nearly threw the food in the trash—until Atlas cleared it. No drugs, no poison, all clear. Neil was never fond of throwing away edible food. “S’part of my job anyways.” Hernandez had gruffed at the time. Hernandez had been hired full time as a “coach” for the rowdy Figments in Millport. Essentially, he trained the Figments, made sure they could interact and behave accordingly in and out of public eye. Which apparently also meant making sure they consumed the right amounts and types of foods, Neil had just been somehow added into the fold.

Between the two of them, the burrito was finished quickly and Neil lent Coach a helping hand. Millport had an odd assortment of Figments in the Crest since it was used as a sort of cast away bin for the undesirables. Nearly the size of the school, the Crest was divided into three wings: the carnivorous, the greenhouse, and the miscellaneous wing. Each wing was then further divided into rooms, each Figment had their own respective room that catered to their specific needs and size.

Neil and Atlas preferred working in the greenhouse wing with the plant like Figments—they tended to be more peaceful and didn’t drag up any memories. After adjusting light settings, Neil, with Atlas in tow, checked the timer on the sprinkler system, and made sure there weren’t any vines that tangled in the system. Neil frequently left for the showers already wet because of a stray vine strangling the system and flooding the room.

After a close call in the ivy room—a hushed moment that had Neil untangling a delicate vine from the sprinkler—Neil and Atlas made their way to Nocht’s room.

Nocht was...the most difficult of the Figments for Neil to be around. Sleeping in an enclosed space with Figments for almost a year had worked wonders on Neil’s tolerance. And Nocht was…Nocht was an exercise for Neil—an all-black creature with the head and torso of a tiger that flowed into matte mechanic plates riddled with electric currents, nerve endings and glass.

Nocht was widely known around the school for his temperament and wide dislike of “younger” humans. Earlier in the year Figments had been allowed in class, teachers encouraged students to bring them in for more interesting and interactive lessons. That was quickly shut down after a few incidents between Nocht and a few students. Reportedly Nocht had sent out a shock that shut off electricity for three blocks when a high schooler threw a paper airplane at him. The blackout lasted for fifteen minutes but when the lights came back on the student that had thrown the airplane was nearly comatose and shaking in the corner. Nocht the picture of innocence at his creator’s feet, tail twitching merrily. A well-oiled mass of muscle and machine that somehow flowed and functioned as if it was made by nature itself.

Most of the time, anything resembling a tiger had a tendency to send Neil into an anxiety attack. They were rather common as Figments—he blamed that stupid animated movie where the princess kept some tiger as a pet and he was not pleased with the amount of giant golden tigers that roamed the streets. From the way, Atlas’s talons dug into his shoulders when he saw them, he didn’t like them either.

Neil's knock on Nocht’s door was followed closely by Atlas’s chitter and a crackling “Enter”. Neil smothered his shudder at the sound of Nocht’s voice but nearly everyone reacted the same way to the rumble. It wasn’t as natural as the movements Nocht’s mechanical body could emulate—making it even more eerie. Nocht’s voice would have been pleasant, a nice low timbre, if it weren’t for the electric zaps, whirring, and white noise that seemed to creep into his voice unexpectedly.

Admittedly, Neil was curious as to why a teenager would ever feel the need to create something like Nocht. A few rumors around the school implied that Nocht’s creator was a huge fan of Power Rangers and big cats as a child but Neil had learned young that not to put too much stock in such whispers.

Bracing himself, Neil entered the blackness of the room with a bag hanging on one shoulder and Atlas on the other. The door closed and sealed them into inky blackness that draped around him like a thick cloak. A deep humming breath sounded from across the room and then pure white light blinked into existence in the form of giant eyes, the only current source of illumination to be found within the pitch of the room.

“Ahh,” a low whirr from the white eyes opposite them, “the boy returns.” Nocht said, a few clicks and sparks shooting from his throat that cast a vague light over Nocht’s body. “And the parrot! Oh, what lovely company.” Nocht purred as he lowered his head to his front paws and watched the pair standing in the doorway.

Atlas whistled, used to Nocht’s needling and flew to the light switch, a gentle dusk of light illuminating the jungle gym that had been built for the mech tiger. A buzzing growl was released in answer from Nocht’s chest at his sudden displeasure with the light and Neil had to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself in the present.

“A warning, little chicken, would be in your best interest the next time you tried that.” A spark of electricity and flash of fang followed the warning before Nocht addressed Neil. “Did you bring me food or not boy? I grow tired of this audience.” Nocht growled out, and Neil just slung the bag off his right shoulder in response. Quickly, Neil pulled useless chords out of the bag and tossed them onto the window seat next to the Figment.

Neil watched as sharp fangs and quick claws tore through rubber, metal, and wiring—forever thankful that the mech tiger ate old useless chords instead of living creatures (something about organics didn’t sit right with his own wiring apparently). Nocht paused the destruction of his breakfast and looked at Neil from the corner of his eye.

“My thanks, boy, it should hold me until dinner.” Nocht purred and turned back to his meal, tail flicking lazily with well-oiled ease. Neil bowed his head and turned around as the lights flickered before they shut off entirely.

Neil twitched, adrenaline slowly flooding his system as a memory reared ugly in his mind. Atlas dug his claws in and screeched in alarm. Neil wasn’t the only one with abject memories of the dark nights spent in the basement under claws and knives. It was a whirring cough from Nocht that drug Neil back into the present, the sound distinct and entirely unique to the mech tiger. The sound was followed by an irritated huff before Nocht wirelessly adjusting the lights in the room for everything to be just barely visible, then continued munching on wires as they left the room.

Atlas hesitantly began to close his wings, unwilling to let his guard down completely while Neil attempted to regain control over his heart rate and breathing. It took him a few minutes to anchor himself back in the present, synchronizing his breathing to Atlas’s—sweat had beaded his forehead, his legs shook, and his shoulder ached from Atlas’s talons. He was fine. Neil was as safe as he could be for the time being.

Neil frowned and scrubbed his hands through the vicious curls on top of his head before he headed back to Coach Hernandez’s office. Hernandez was typing away at his computer when Neil made it to the office. Neil nodded in greeting, key for the locker in hand as Coach Hernandez grunted in greeting.

“I’m gonna need some help for dinner time tonight, mind lending a hand?” the coach glanced up at Neil, quickly followed by a long sip of coffee. Hernandez’s pen clicking quietly in the other hand. Neil paused. Hernandez had never explicitly asked for help for the dinner feeding.

“What’s going on?” Neil hedged, hating himself just a little for being so hesitant.

“New kid transferred in and his Figment is going to be trouble to get settled in. Some type of mist creature.” Coach Hernandez shrugged. “Anyway, I figure by the time I get the beasty settled in, I’ll be an hour or two behind schedule. Not good for our regulars, they need routine. A familiar face would keep some of them calm at least. If you’re not down for it just let me know, I would gladly drag Mr. Gretcher down here.” Hernandez shot him a wicked smile.

Everyone in the school new about the feud between Coach Hernandez and Mr. Gretcher. It had apparently started with a dare two years ago that somehow escalated into a food fight, restroom vandalism, a fire alarm, and reprimands from the higher ups. On top of that, Mr. Gretcher’s hatred of Figments was widespread knowledge. Some speculated that it was because he never had one, but Neil was pretty sure that it was just because they were consistent in their effort to steal his toupee. To each their own, he supposed.

After a second of contemplation, Neil nodded, “What time?”

“Hmmmm? Oh,” Hernandez shuffled a few papers around before finding the one he was looking for. “Uh, four thirty. Thanks kid.” After another short nod, Neil pushed out the door and took off.

~~~

The early run and bland classes had given Neil a chance to clear his head by the time four o’clock rolled around. There were a four people in front of the Crest when Neil and Atlas arrived at 4:20. Coach Hernandez and a large man stood talking in front of a trailer that was pulled up alongside the curb—windowless and made of some sort of reflective material. Two other people were moving around in the trailer, unclipping latches on a glass box that looked to be filled with a rolling fog.

Neil maneuvered towards Hernandez, mentally keeping tabs on the two in the trailer. If one of them tried to approach from behind Atlas would alert him.

Hernandez turned towards Neil as he approached. “Just in time. Wanna go ahead and get started with the others? This might take a bit longer than we thought.” Neil raised an eyebrow as he came to a stop next to the two, positioned just so he could keep everyone within his line of sight and still be out of reach.

“We’re picking up another Figment while we’re here.” The stranger answered and Neil’s eyebrows furrowed as Neil turned his head slightly more towards the man. The stranger was tall and easily muscled for a middle-aged man. His tribal flame tattoos were showed off by the wife beater and jeans he wore casually, one hand in a pocket the other holding a thick manila file. Everything about this man’s posture and demeanor screamed casual but his eyes were the complete opposite—much like his father’s, focused and intent.

Neil shifted farther from the man and slightly closer to Hernandez, unease slithering in the back of his skull. After a casual glance around, Neil noted with growing agitation that the man either didn’t have a Figment or it was currently out of sight.

“Which Figment are you taking?” Neil asked. And why?

“Nocht.” Hernandez said. Neil stared at Coach for a few seconds and then looked back at the man.

“Good luck.” Nocht would rarely leave his room, partially due to Nocht’s intolerance of light but his hatred of people was also a big factor. Neil and Hernandez could rarely coax him out of the dim room, the strangers wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I think we can—” the man was cut off by a dull thud from the back of the trailer, followed immediately by a string of swear words. The guy threw his head back with an exasperated sigh and ran his free hand down his face tiredly. “Excuse me.” He said and started towards the trailer, purpose making his strides quick and efficient. Neil watched him for a few more seconds before excusing himself as well.

~~~

Neil was nearly done with the evening care routine and was...put out, to say the least. The climbing ivy broke the two of the four sprinklers in its room—very nearly flooding the plant wing of the Crest and soaked Neil and Atlas to the core. An encounter with a venus trap left Atlas with a few missing feathers, Neil’s riot of curls more than slightly mussed, and a bit of smoke hazing the room. A mountain lion with the hind legs of a kangaroo had managed to destroy half of its room, while a super computer from the tech wing had nearly succeeded in draining all the electricity from the school. To say the Figments were rowdy was an understatement.

The only Figment left to check on was Nocht but Neil was interrupted before he could knock on the door as Hernandez walked into the room. He was followed closely by the tattooed man and two others carrying a clear square case, much smaller than the one Neil had originally seen in the back of the trailer.

The tattooed man was talking to Hernandez, making small gestures with his hands, an old and worn backpack over his left shoulder. A brunette easily the same height as the tattooed man struggled with a clear case—the muscles in his arms straining as the rolling fog within hid his face pressed against the glass to balance the rather cumbersome-looking case. The third man offered no help but a single hand positioned under the corner of the case closest to him, a deranged smile stretched across his face. While shorter than everyone in the room, the blond clearly had the most muscle mass but seemingly enjoyed watching the brunette struggle.

Atlas shuffled on his shoulder as they passed Neil, the brunette shuffled into the prepped room while the blond man stopped in front of Neil. Unease crept up the back of Neil’s throat as the man shifted, his weight balanced imperceptibly on the balls of feet, crooked smile taking on a dangerous edge. Despite the growing smile the blond’s eyes remained flat, the hazel color reflected no emotion—completely at odds with the crazed smile lazing crookedly on his face. A deadly aura wrapped him like a second skin, a hauntingly familiar and well-honed weapon that Neil was sure he had worn before.

Atlas gave a muted warning, alerting Neil to a sudden movement in the man’s hair above his left ear that had drawn the bird’s attention. He dared a glance around—it made him wary, positive that taking his eyes off a guy with such a dangerous demeanor like that had resulted in broken bones and blood before. Anyone who underestimated this man would regret it, but caution had been drilled into his head from a young age and if the man in front of him had a Figment, Neil needed to be prepared—he seemed dangerous enough to begin with, a Figment could bring unforetold problems into the fold. Neil couldn’t have done anything to make the stranger angry at him yet—unless he hated people solely for their existence—and Atlas was diligent in his protector/scout role. Neil would have at least a small warning should the blond attempt to make a move towards Neil.

The quick glance around and memory informed him that they weren’t under any vents and there were no open doors or windows to cause a breeze—it was strictly against policy in the Crest to leave any door or window open anyway, lest any Figment escape Neil turned back to him in time to catch a flash of what looked to be a black wing quickly disappearing under blond locks. Atlas confirmed Neil’s suspicions, the leftmost claw on his right talon digging in slightly, followed by the rightmost claw and then the entire talon dug into his shoulder. At his mother’s insistence, Neil and Atlas had worked out their own form of sign language—any suspicious people or Figments were reported to one another, the number, location, and description included. Signs for escape routes, resources and methods of transportation were also hammered out and memorized.

Now that they knew a Figment was there, they could divide their attention accordingly between the threats. Neil glanced at the ear one more time before turning to meet blank eyes once more. The man cocked his head, his wicked smile growing as he noted the wary flick of Neil’s eye. The man opened his mouth only to be interrupted by Atlas’s alarmed screech and spread wings. Neil startled, jumping back nearly a foot as Atlas screeched an alarm.

“What the hell, Andrew,” came a winded voice from behind the man that tickled Neil’s memory. Atlas’s talons signing frantically: not safe, identified person: Kevin Day. And Mary’s voice started a murmured litany in the back of his head. Run. Run, now. Don’t look back, just run.

Neil’s throat struggled to remain open as the brunette—with nothing left to obscure his face, turned towards the blond man, recognition lilting through Neil’s brain. Kevin Day—son of the co-founder of Evermore Foundation; a witness; a piece of Nathaniel’s history, now stood just behind the shorter blond man. Andrew Minyard, his brain supplied.

Andrew Minyard was the deadliest investment from the notoriously lethal halfway home, Palmetto State Institution. Palmetto took in everything under the sun that needed a few more chances in life, including one bruised and broken Kevin Day. Tabloids had a field day when Kevin had left the prestigious Evermore Foundation only to take up work at Palmetto State only a month later, stating that Kevin had betrayed his late mother. Since that day a few years ago, Kevin Day hasn’t set foot in public without the ever deadly presence of Andrew Minyard at his side.

“Stop terrorizing the bird. You insisted that you come along, at least help.” Kevin—Kevin fucking Day—said, slightly exasperated. His voice had gotten deeper but still had that tone Neil remembered from their first and last meeting.

RUN, Mary insisted in the back of his head. And so, he did.


End file.
